


Yet Another Country

by spinnd



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, HRBB14, Hurt Thorin, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Middle Earth, Partially Deceased Syndrome, Past Violence, Protective Bilbo, Zombie Apocalypse, hobbit reverse big bang 2014
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:51:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinnd/pseuds/spinnd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo had lived through the Rising, that had swept across the whole of Arda. Now, picking up the pieces of a once-peaceful existence, he spends his days helping return some semblance of life to his Shire's inhabitants, alive or otherwise.</p>
<p>How he ends up caring, and falling, for a partially deceased dwarf, is quite beyond him. He wonders if that had been the Wizard's plan all along.</p>
<p>Hobbit Reverse Big Bang 2014, prompt and art by majesticbagginshield</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majesticbagginshield](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=majesticbagginshield).



> Went a little left-field with the prompt, sorry. A zombie!AU Bagginshield fic. Elements of _In the Flesh_ not entirely unintentional; imagine, if you will, PDS!Thorin - but with a twist.
> 
> Art and prompt by majesticbagginshield on the [HRBB tumblr ](http://hobbitreversebang.tumblr.com/post/96116256886/majesticbagginshield-hobbit-reverse-big-bang#notes):
> 
>   _(ZOMBIE AU SET IN FANTASY MIDDLE EARTH NOT MODERN AU.)_
> 
>  
> 
> My thanks again for your great artwork! 
> 
> As far as possible, this will be updated weekly. Ratings may go up.

* * *

 

 

Today begins like any other day, as he opens his door to grey skies and brown fields, and stands atop his little knoll to survey the rubble of his village and its slow but steady re-growth. The lake by the mill ripples in a barely-present breeze, its waters dark and murky and holding the memories its Shire is still striving to forget. 

Bilbo lets the natural chill of the morning air raise the hackles on his neck, relishing in the unease that has become now commonplace, familiar, and just another part of life. He doesn’t suppose it would go away any time soon; and when it did, he thinks he might even miss it - the feeling of being alive.

He smiles wryly at that, and shouldering his pack, he lets himself out the door. Locks - unlocks - locks it again, hands brushing the chipped green paint, now dulled by marks and dirt and old blood, before making his way out of Bag End. His gate is in slightly better shape, the spikes fierce and newly sharpened, and a momentary lapse almost earns him a new scratch as a stray tip snags on his coat sleeve. 

“Come now,” he scolds the brandishing wood, untangling himself. “I just mended this coat, so mind your thorns.”

First stop then, as he makes his usual rounds today. The road down to the Gamgees is newly cleared, he notices, the brambles and twigs that long had lain on the path now swept over to the sides, and the gravel is raked neatly, as if someone had taken an oversized comb to it. A good sign, he takes it, keeping a firm grip on his dirk as he wanders up to the house, where the door flies open just as he raises a knock, and the face of young Samwise is there, a new bruise painted over his left eye, smiling up him as he lets him through the new-repaired smial.

“You missed a few lots of the ‘Foil?” Bilbo says, after he comes to sit by where Hamfast is knelt, digging at his flowerbed, and the un-hobbit is unable to raise his pale gaze past the ground of newly turned dirt.

“Aye, and by my own stupidity too. Sam had to go all by his lonesome to purchase the new stock, what with the state I was in.” Hamfast gives Bilbo a knowing look. “You saw the shiner I gave the boy? When he was tryin’ to feed me, and I wasn't 'right'. If I had bitten him, Bilbo…”

Hamfast draws back, one hand clasped to the still-raw wound gaping from half his shoulder, when Sam comes bounding up to them. 

“Da’s all right, then, Mister Bilbo?”

“As long as he’s taking his lots, Samwise. You’ll help him with that, now, won’t you?”

“Aye, sir!” 

Bilbo turns and raises his eyebrows at Hamfast. “And you know what to do in case your Da takes a turn for the worse?”

The faunt nods, once. “Sound the signal, and hide.”

“Good lad,” Bilbo and Hamfast say, together.

There is some work to be done before he take his leave - Sam's left eye, swollen and rainbowed, is quickly looked at, Hamfast gets a new bandage for his shoulder (more aesthetic than functional, really), and the lots of Kingsfoil stashed in the Gamgees’ pantry are checked and counted, as well as all the locks of all the doors. 

He leaves Sam at the gate with a cautious reminder and a promise for a delivery of Mrs Bolger's pies this evening - which earns him a hug and laugh from the tired, underfed faunt. Winding his way out of Bagshot Row, his further visitations are cut short by the sudden and most unexpected appearance of a tall being standing in the middle of the path.

 

* * *

  

The figure looks nothing like a Risen, as far as Bilbo can tell, as he takes cover in the bush at the bend in the road. There is none of the feral appearance, the jerky stop-start of limbs, or the disorganised conduct of his actions; more reassuringly, he seems to not have spotted Bilbo's arrival, being somewhat engaged in studying the overcast sky above them. Then again, Bilbo had seen enough Risens to never underestimate their senses of smell and hearing.

There is an air of casual awareness however, when the being turns around to face the path, and looks straight at his hiding place. Bilbo buries himself further in between the leaves, holding his breath and praying he had not been spotted.

Only to hear a clearing of throat, and a low voice intone: "Bilbo Baggins."

Strange as the being is, and stranger still his presence, that certainly is not the voice of a Risen. He perks up, more curious than fearful now, but his self-preservation keeps him crouched and hidden in the rhododendron until the voice sighs again, and says: "My dear hobbit, I can see your feet."

Cursing quietly -  _you're getting soft in the head, Baggins -_ he clambers out of the shrubbery and faces the man, who is now smiling broadly from beneath the wide brim of his pointed grey hat.

"Good day," he says, warily. "And who might you be?"

The man guffaws, a little too loudly, and Bilbo jumps at the sound, the instincts honed over the years stringing his muscles tight. The grey-clad figure shakes his head and removes his hat.

"Has it truly been so long since we met? But I suppose it has been, for you had hardly come of age when I last paid a visit to your grandmother."

The face is older, lined with greater care and worries, but the eyes are still as bright and sharp as he remembers them.

"Gandalf!" Bilbo exclaims, recognising the wizard from his youth. "Gandalf the Grey. Well I'll be... what brings you to the Shire? I can assure you I have things under control; Grandmother made sure of that before - you know, she passed on, all those summers ago. The new lots of Kingsfoil the Dunedain have been sending over have been wonderful too-"

He is cut off when Gandalf walks up to him and clasps a hand to his shoulder gently.

"I have the greatest faith in your abilities, old friend. And I come today, not because I doubt you, but precisely because I know you are the best person for the task I am about to set to you."

Bilbo smiles a little uncertainly at Gandalf's solemn tone, and drops in into a frown altogether when the words finally register.

"Task?"

Gandalf chuckles - not reassuingly. "You'll see, my dear boy."

 

* * *

 

Contrary to the earlier title, Bilbo had long considered Gandalf the Grey more of an acquaintance than a friend. Not that this in any way diminishes the Wizard's importance in Bilbo's life, or indeed, the life of the entire Westfarthing after the Rising had occurred, when hordes of once-dead hobbits had all at once come to primal, ferocious life. 

The Wizard had been one of the first to respond to their Thain’s call for aid, and in a few short months had produced a concoction that essentially eradicated the rabid nature of the Risen. If it hadn't been for Gandalf's Kingsfoil, Bilbo would still be hiding behind barricaded windows and reinforced tables, running on sleeplessness and edgy vigilance, listening for shuffling feet and throaty moans as he had on that one night, all those years ago, that claimed the lives of his parents and changed his world forever.

Still, he had seen Gandalf when he had been but an undergrown tween, and those few occasions had been mainly from behind the comforting bulk of Grandmother Grubb. She, having fostered her grandson after his parents’ deaths, had taught him all he knows now about treating Risens - Un-hobbits, as they prefer to be called nowadays. And in between their chores and rounds and visitations, she had recounted to him tales about the Risings in the cities of Men and Dwarves alike, the Sindar Elves and their creation of a cure, and the Grey Wizard, whose devotion to the Halflings had saved their Shire. The Grey Wizard who, in all this time since Bilbo had taken up his grandmother’s mantle in caring for his hobbitfolk, had never again stepped foot into Hobbiton. Until today.

So - Bilbo muses, as he watches the Wizard disappear down the path - an acquaintance then, from a dark time past.

He frowns, adjusting the pack on his shoulder. The Wizard had left with nary but a cryptic message, along the lines of ' _wait by your door this eventime'_ , and ' _we need someplace quiet, away from prying eyes'._

And what exactly did Gandalf mean by ' _I will be requiring your expertise for him'_?

Bilbo frowns, his mind turning with the thoughts and questions, but a sudden fat drop of rain pulls him out of his musings. Three more smials to visit, Holdfoots and Stotts and Cottons, and if he gets caught in a downpour, he'll never make it home in time for elevensies. 

The hobbit hurries off in the steadily worsening drizzle, grumbling about _adventures_ and  _Wizards_ and their  _most atrocious timing._

 

* * *

 

_Wait by your door_ , the Wizard had said. Well, Bilbo had waited, and it is well past supper now, and if they weren't keeping time like they had promised, he is going to prepare his meal of pheasant and carrots, guests or no.

The kettle whistles from over the merry fire he had going, and Bilbo levers it out and pours the tea carefully. He returns to the fireplace, tasting the stew gently bubbling in the pot, then adds on a liberal helping of salt to the dish, licking the residue off his thumb and forefinger. Such a simple thing, but he smiles, reveling in the tang it leaves on his tongue. It had been so commonplace before the Rising, and now with the trade routes re-opened, something no longer considered a luxury to have. In those dark years, however - some hobbits would have done anything to get their hands on these small, white grains. 

The stew seasoned to his liking, he spoons out a good helping onto his plate, slightly more than his usual - which, he reasons, he deserved after a day like he's had. The table is laid, the napkin is spread, and his seat is warmed by the hot flannel he'd placed on it. But before he could sit down to enjoy his frankly delicious-smelling meal, there is a soft  _rat-a-tat_  on the sturdy wood of his front door. 

Bilbo is on his feet in an instant, heart pounding hard against his ribs at the thought that someone’s gotten past the gates. His hand wraps around the poker resting by the hearth. 

"Hello?" He calls, but there is no answer. He calls again, only to be answered by another sharper, louder  _rat-a-tat._  

"We don't open our doors to strangers," Bilbo warns, gripping his poker. "We don't like strangers much."

But as only insistent knocking replies his words, he finally finds his grip on his doorknob, tight and already twisting.

_If this is Gandalf's guest, he is wanting in much manners; and a good knock to the head._

That is his last thought before he pulls open the door and comes face-to-face with a tall, blue-eyed, Un-dead dwarf.

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

Bilbo feels a flutter-thump of unconscious, learned terror at the sight of the creature before him, all pale-faced and bruised lips and hollow-cheeked behind the shadow of his beard. And those unmistakable eyes; pinpricks of black encircled by a ring of queer azure, the whites more an off-grey, making ita gaze run cold and almost sickly and definitely dead. Or Un-dead, actually. Un-dead, and un-treated, and most likely still feral, still dangerous.

There is a long pause, then, tense and painful and Bilbo feels his fist squeeze tighter around the poker held still-unraised by his side even as his mind whirls for words. A small part of him wants to laugh at the absurd thought of conversing with a Risen in this state, wants to laugh at the thought of even laughing in the likely seconds he had left to live before teeth and hands were tearing out his throat.

He is saved from his muddle of emotions and inaction when the dwarf, instead of lunging straight for him, settles for a painfully stiff bow.

"Th-Thorin," the voice grates out, dry and unused, consonants snapping like an frail twig. "At - 's-ervice."

"Bilbo Baggins, at yours," he automatically, confusedly replies; not Feral then, and obviously the dwarf has been treated and regained some function of thought and speech. He is still staring when the dwarf straightens, raising his head almost proudly, but ruins his composure when a fit of coughs wrack his tall frame and the cloak slips down to reveal threadbare clothes and a multitude of suspicious marks beneath the tears and rips.

 _Good gracious,_  Bilbo thinks, taking in the state of the dwarf, and says so. He offers a helping hand and guides the dwarf - Thorin - through, his shuffling gait crossing the step with obvious effort. Bilbo shuts and locks his door once his guest is ushered inside, then turns back to find Thorin stock still in his hallway, eyes trained on the carpet in a blankly perplexed stare.

"Thorin," he calls softly, keeping his hands clasped and not wanting to startle him with any unexpected touches. "Let's get you settled in."

It seems to take great effort for the words to register, and though Thorin nods his assent, he makes no effort to move. After a flitting uncertainty, Bilbo tries again to offer his hand, which succeeds in getting the dwarf moving forward and through the house, albeit in jerky shuffles and frequent pauses.

With no small amount of patience and coaxing, Bilbo finally has him seated in the armchair by the fireplace in the living room. Thorin almost folds in on himself in the plush fabric, hunching in and wrapping the cloak tighter round his shoulders.Bilbo looks to the kitchen, then back at the strange undead Dwarf, and resigns his night to go dinnerless - anyhow, his appetite has quite vanished in light of such unusual  circumstances.

"Right. Well, ah, just sit back and relax for a bit, Thorin, and let me get my pack. We'll see to your clothes, I should have a few bigger shirts around somewhere, and maybe a bath or anything else you'd need -" 

"F'oil." The voice is thin and soft, but Bilbo still startles at it.

"Foil? Oh, Foil, yes, ah -" he flounders, shifts uncomfortably, and finds his feet carrying him off before he completes his sentence.

_Of course - Foil. Keep up, Baggins._

The dwarf is in the exact position when he returns, package in a state of half-unwrapped as he teases out a sprig of the silver weed. He rolls it expertly in one hand, tying down the ends, and comes to kneel by the chair.

"Is this how -" he trails off, holding up the herb. 

Thorin remains so still that Bilbo half wonders if he will have to physically feed the dwarf himself, but Thorin eventually takes it from him, fingers wavering, and with Bilbo's guidance, manages to slip it into his mouth.

"Good," Bilbo praises, automatically instructing, "now swallow."

Foil administered, he watches as the dwarf slowly relaxes into the cushioned seat, eyes slipping shut and jaw unclenching - not long after, his head drooped in a way only sleep affords.

He returns to the kitchen and his cold congealed dinner, and tries valiantly to find his appetite again.

The stew is abandoned after two mouthfuls, and he returns after cleaning up to the living room, settling into the armchair opposite his sleeping guest, and prepares for the night. The poker rests beside him, retrieved from his door, and a blanket is pulled up to his chin, but still, he shivers as if caught in a sudden chilly draft.

 _Bebother and confusticate this dwarf_ , he thinks, as he keeps wary watch.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo's first thought when he wakes is that he is  _awake_. And thus had, prior to this, been asleep. 

The thought skitters to a curse when he remembers his undead Dwarven guest, a severe self-chiding at his immense complacency in the face of potential danger, but which then almost immediately goes on to register a full blown panic when he, blinking the sleep from his eyes, finds that said dwarf is nowhere to be seen.

He jumps out of his chair, fumbling for the poker, and is just about to embark of a search of his house for the runaway when a muffled crash is heard from the kitchen, followed by a deep rumble of unintelligble displeasure. It confuses Bilbo momentarily, this turn of events. For Risen do not - cannot - eat, and his dwarf has little other reason to be in the kitchen. 

Unless he is trying to get into the knives.

The guilt at having feared the worst - and most dangerous - sparks belatedly when he bursts through into the kitchen frantically, only to find the dwarf attempting to re-right the knocked over hearth-grill with clumsy incoordination, a kettle half filled and hanging over a cold fireplace. The display of domesticity is most befuddling. 

"Thorin?" 

The dwarf merely grunts a greeting, and once the grill is situated properly, stands slowly, eyes uncertain and downcast. 

"I - uhm - it- " the words are slow and garbled, and Thorin's frown deepens as he seems to struggle with his words. He glances up at Bilbo and grits his teeth, frustrated and almost pleadingly. "Ah, fell -" 

"It's all right," Bilbo reaches his side and takes him by the arm, "it's all right. Thank you. I'll handle it."

The grill now in place, Bilbo sets the fire up and fusses with the lid on the kettle. As he bustles around the rest of the kitchen, he tries to make small talk at the dwarf now sat at his kitchen table, staring morosely at the wall in front of him. 

"-and once I'm done with breakfast, we'll get you cleaned up and changed out of those travel clothes, You can take the guest room, I suppose. Gandalf didn't mention how long you'd be here -- no,  _not_  that I'm chasing you out, mind! You stay here as long as you need to, I wouldn't be at all bothered." 

Thorin interrupts him when he suddenly (slowly) lifts his head and gives a sniff. "Bread?" 

The buttered slices frying in the pan give an answering crackle. Bilbo looks down, then back up at his guest as he take them off the fire. "Yes. Bread."

"Bread..." Thorin's gaze meets his, and a small smile lifts the corners of his mouth, barely noticeable under his beard. "Th-thank you." 

There is a moment of abject confusion, in which Bilbo almost drops his slice off the plate, but when he thinks he finally understands, he finds himself tripping over his tongue in his hasty attempt to explain: "Oh, you mean, you want the bread, Thorin, but you can't. You can't eat, you-you know that? I mean, because you're..."

BIlbo stops, and takes in the strange blue eyes still fixed on him. "Thorin. You're dead."

 _(And the Risen do not eat, for a myriad of reasons and theories, all of which had yet to be fully proven but no one would be fool enough to try. The Foil was enough to sustain them, and Valar forbid should the simple act of chewing and swallowing trigger a feral relapse in one of them. It was not worth the risk. Not again.)_  

In the answering silence, Bilbo tries again to explain, slow and calm, like to a child. "You can't eat food, Thorin. You don't have to. You're dead."

"No."

He frowns at the answer. "No?" 

"No." Thorin bares his teeth, eyes slipping shut briefly as a shudder runs through him. "N-not. 'M - not dead." 

A pale arm is raised from where it was tucked under the warmth of the coat, grimy and marred with scratches suspiciously fresh-looking. The bread lies forgotten on the counter as Bilbo steps towards the outstretched arm, as he understands what he's meant to do, heart racing with a disbelieving anticipation.

His hand closes around the thin wrist.

His fingers find a pulse. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dropping a quick warning here for depictions of bodily injuries and panic triggers.

* * *

 

"I don't understand," Bilbo says, more to himself than to anyone else, when he is later drawing the bath for his not-un-dead dwarf. "It doesn't make sense."

He dips his fingers into the water, testing its warmth, but he is distracted and his eyes keep sliding to the shadow beneath the doorframe, where Thorin waits outside. Too many thoughts and questions, he muses, and not enough answers. Not from Thorin, anyhow - even after a small slice of bread (which was gratefully, painstakingly consumed) and two lots of Foil, the not-completely-dead dwarf was still slow and stilted in his speech and movements. Completely unlike anyone he'd ever seen, for most Risens respond to the antidote with remarkable speed and vigour.

Yet another mystery to be solved. He sighs, turning away from the tub, and calls Thorin through. 

"You can remove your clothes and put them in that corner," Bilbo instructs; unfazed as Thorin obeys and removes his garments layer by layer, for he had seen and helped many an patient wash and dress their wounds, and nakedness was no longer an affront to his sensibilities, and recent times made no room for such sensitivities.

But curious - and he feels a flush heat the back of his neck at this self-admission -- curious, he definitely is, as he studies the steadily undressing figure in front of him with a poor show of discretion. 

As a dwarf, Thorin is taller than a hobbit, as is to be completely expected. Taller and broader, and definitely hairier, but Bilbo suspects he would presently be deemed rather wiry for a dwarf. ( _Wiry. Skinny, in truth.)_

Then the inner tunic comes off, and his blood runs cold.

Mark that down as _abused_ too.

A large scar, old and dried and blackened with dead flesh, runs vertically through the midline of his chest; the other scar down his spine an identical mirror. Smaller scars intersect across them at various points, some linear and thin, others curving along the musculature and would have gaped with every small movement were they not held together by stiff lines of stitches.

One mark stands out on the canvas of rent flesh, however, and Bilbo cannot help but stare; high above the left breast, a dragon branded an angry red ( _burned into him when he was still alive; properly alive),_ its mouth gaping over the heart and a serpentine tail stretching its tip to the hollow of his neck.

"Oh," he breathes, but is cut off when the other clears his throat uncomfortably. Finally managing to tear his gaze away, he looks up to find a horribly pained expression on Thorin's face, eyes shuttered and lips pressed into a tight line. 

It takes Thorin several swallows to find his voice. "I... would like... that bath now, Master Baggins."

Bilbo nods wordlessly, too shocked to feel any awkwardness at being caught in such blatant observation of his guest. It is not until when Thorin, clutching the waistband of the pants that are close to falling off his hips, has almost shuffled to the side of the tub, that he comes back to himself in belated embarrassment, and he hastily, instinctually, reaches forward to help. 

He does not expect Thorin's flinch at his touch - the first, sudden, violent movement he's seen the dwarf make since he's been here - and Bilbo jumps back in startled fright.

"Sorry-!"

"Master Baggins-"

"Sorry, I'm so sorry," Bilbo begins, kicking himself for scaring his patient with his carelessness, "I just thought, if you needed some help - getting in?" 

Thorin nods, almost immediately, but he does not look up. "I would...appreciate...it."

It takes several long moments, filled with Bilbo's nervous energy and Thorin's uncoordinated movements, for both of them to work the last layers off him and maneuver stiff muscles into the tub without creating a mess.

"All right, all right, easy." Bilbo says, as much to himself as to the other, and cannot help a small smile at Thorin's groan of relief when he sinks into the warm water. "Good, isn't it? Now, where's the soap?"

He sets about to helping Thorin with his bath - ends up doing most of the cleaning, really, as Thorin seems more focused on soaking in the sensations at this point. He is careful around the fragile flesh of the scars, the brittle stitches, the rest of the pale skin that barely flushes with the temperature and which could easily tear under too-vigorous scrubbing. But Thorin gives no indiction of discomfort, save a sensitive gasp when Bilbo dips down to clean between his legs, and he keeps his eyes closed the whole time. With the pinched lines cleared from his features, Bilbo thinks his dwarf looked an exceedingly fine specimen of his race.

_Exceedingly fine?_  He's glad Thorin isn't looking when he feels the blush return to his cheeks, mentally tutting and forcing away his distractible thoughts to concentrate on the  _clinical_  task of helping his patient in his capacity as a  _Healer._

_Stop ogling, Baggins. What would Grandmother say?_

With Thorin almost completely relaxed, Bilbo helps him lean back to rest his head on the side of the tub, and gathers his long hair over the edge.

"Tell me if I'm hurting you," Bilbo says, as he sets the comb to work on the gnarls and tangles. The water in his basin, like the water in the tub, runs a muddy brown in no time, and once the dirt had been washed out of the dark strands, streaked with silver at the crown, he tries to work the tangled hair into a casual tie. 

"It's nothing elaborate, but I hope you don't mind," he chatters, as he weaves the single thick braid. "It's more for practicality at this point. But I've heard Dwarves often braid their hair in their rituals, and put in all kinds of ornaments and precious stones, beads made of silver and pure gold-" 

He knows he's said something wrong immediately when Thorin tenses sharply, straightening and pulling away from him.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you," he tries to amend, at once trying to disentangle his hand from the messy braid, but only managing to further catch on dark twined strands. A pull yanks the dwarf’s head back, and he winces. “Sorry, hold on, Thorin - ” 

There is an edge of fear to the dwarf’s movements now, an aborted thrash sending water spilling out of the tub, arms and legs hitting the sides. Bilbo struggles behind him, his free hand up and batting Thorin’s hands away when the dwarf tries to reach back to release himself.

"- Thorin, I need you to stop struggling. Thorin!"

Given time and calm, he should have been able to get his fingers unwound, but now Thorin’s attempts only makes things worse, knotting the hair further, and the dwarf kicks out at the tub with a resounding bang as he tries to move from the restraining hand, and finds that he _cannot_. 

Bilbo calls into his ear, but Thorin continues to struggle, and Bilbo can only watch as the fear has turned into a full-blown panic state. Thorin’s breaths are coming in sharp pants now, eyes squeezed shut and movements sloppy, mindless, unheeding in what must be a desperate, instinctual attempt to _run, get away, get help, help-_

“Help me.”

It is gasped out on a half-breath, soft and broken, but Bilbo hears it, even over the noise of kicks and splashes he hears it, and the words squeeze something tight in his chest. 

One last, vicious twist (that jerks and tears and must have surely hurt), and his hand is blessedly free, and he’s stumbling to the side, catching Thorin as he nearly falls over trying to get out the tub. The weight sends them to the wet floor, Bilbo landing heavily on his behind, and Thorin is a naked, shaking mess of hair and limbs half-curled in his lap.

"Thorin," he repeats, over and over, "Thorin, you're safe. Listen to me, you're safe here. You're safe."

He keeps one hand on Thorin’s cheek, leaves the other a firm pressure on his shoulder, thumb tracing gentle circles. When the fight goes out of him, the dwarf slumps down, head dropping and coming to rest against Bilbo's chest, breaths coming in ragged puffs of air.

"Good, that's it," Bilbo murmurs, shifting some of Thorin's weight into a more comfortable position against the tub. "There you go."

He hears the breathing to ease before he looks down and catches Thorin’s gaze for the briefest of moments. And Bilbo inhales at the sight of Thorin’s eyes now, with their deep deep shade of blue _-_ fear alight and glistening behind wet lashes, but warm and alive and nothing like the pallor of their former ghostly stare _._  

Then it drops. Shutters. Slides completely shut as Thorin squeezes his eyes against telltale, shameful tears which he hides behind his own hands, body curling as he draws his legs up towards himself.

"All right," Bilbo hums, keeping his hand on his shoulder, wearily resting his head back as the rush of emotions leaves his body. The wet floor soaks through his trousers, but he finds he does not care the least as he settles down beside the silently weeping dwarf, against the thin metal of a slowly cooling tub. 

"All right."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your reads and reviews!


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

 

He feels about ready to collapse into bed and not wake for the next two days, Bilbo thinks, as his pounding head sinks into the wonderfully soft pillow and he breathes in the scent of fresh-laundered linen. He hasn’t been this tired since, well, possibly since the Rising.  He remembers this fatigue well; the crawling ache that winds itself around his neck and shoulders, the seat of nausea in his belly, sheer imbalance that makes his eyes cross and the room tilt - all too recent, all too familiar a feeling, running on reserves and mind strung out on uncertainty and fear. 

He supposes that his current situation is not entirely dissimilar. The bone-deep exhaustion had nothing to do with having to half-carry Thorin out of the bath, nor having to wrestle leaden limbs into the guest bed, and no, not even that he had spent the better part of his day divided between cleaning the house and popping in every hour to ensure Thorin hadn’t thrown himself into another fit.

No, it is precisely the uncertainty of Thorin’s condition, carrying his baggage of traumas and scars, and the fear that he might snap do something to hurt himself (-  _and yourself)_ , that has Bilbo on such edge as to give himself a headache. 

Though, the dwarf had not awoken since taking one more lot of Foil and bedding down, tucked snugly under the covers, after that disaster of a bath. He had slept right through all his meals, and Bilbo, missing second breakfast and elevensies in all the excitement, had thus been at least able to catch up from luncheon onwards, and not had to contend with starving on top of all his other worries.

Eru save him from any more dwarves - this one is enough to last him a lifetime. 

He turns in his face into the soft cotton, the familiar position knocking a long exhaled sigh out of him, and some tension eases from the tight lines down his back. His eyes flutter shut, and he chases after the sleep that should have come easily, naturally. Given his current state, he should have slipped under the moment his body hit horizontal.

But it is a crash from the other room that has him bolting straight up.

“Thorin?” Bilbo is stumbling out of bed and into his housecoat before he can even finish his sentence. “Is everything all right?”

The guest room is merely two doors down from his own, but it feels like he cannot get there quick enough. He shoulders the door open, eyes scanning the room, and his heart quickens when all he can find are an overturned chair and an empty bed.

“Thorin?”

The giveaway is the shuffle of cloth coming from around the bed, and he spies a last corner of a blanket disappearing under the wooden frame. Bilbo closes his eyes briefly, feeling the slow return of the throbbing headache as his panic subsides.

“Do you want to come out from under the bed, Thorin?” He asks softly, but no reply comes his way. Not until he takes it upon himself to get onto his hands and knees, and crawl towards to the underside of the bed. 

“Hello,” he greets, when he comes face to face with his dwarf, who is currently backed against the far end of the wall, staring at him from behind the flimsy barricade of his blankets. Well, not so much a dwarf as a mass of hair with blue eyes, which is as much as Bilbo can make out in the dark of the under-bed. 

“Is it not - ” his head bumps against the lower edge, and he flattens himself further onto his front, “ - is it not a bit tight for you in here?”

“It’s fine,” the mass of hair answers, in a voice that is less gravel and more an uneasy slide of words against a dry throat, so very much closer to sounding normal. “I like small spaces.”

“All right, that’s all right,” Bilbo placates, slowly inching the rest of the way and ignoring the sharp intake of breath as he comes closer into Thorin’s space. “Are you hungry?”

The blue eyes watch him for a long moment. There is recognition, however wary, in them, enough for Bilbo to be certain that Thorin has not forgotten all that had transpired. That Thorin has not forgotten where he is, has not forgotten who  _he_ is; a rather welcomed lucidity. 

“Thorin?”

“Yes,” Thorin concedes.

“Do you want to come out, and I’ll prepare us some supper?”

“No.”

Bilbo accommodates this with a tilt of his head. “I’m not that hungry either; just thought I’d offer, you being my guest and all. And as my guest, I had rather hoped you’d use the bed rather than the floor beneath it.”

Thorin’s gaze narrows, drops, and Bilbo can tell he has curled in on himself once more to avoid further contact with him. The sight makes his heart clench, hard. But it also flares in him a determination to see this through, and to finally understand what it was exactly that Gandalf had sent his way, believing in his own (strange, annoying) Wizardly wisdom that he,  _a hobbit,_  could be of any help to a prickly, traumatised, not-Undead dwarf. A Risen unlike any other, blood still flowing, lungs still breathing, bearing marks that should have left any other being dead, but somehow, not him.

With Thorin now taciturn and hidden away from him, and the twinge up his arm reminding him to assume the lesser of the uncomfortable positions on the hard wood floor, Bilbo sighs quietly to himself, and settles in for a long night.

 

* * *

 

With the both of them like overgrown stoats in a nest walled and formed out of his old fleece blankets, the silence lulls about them with a drawing heaviness that Bilbo finds exceedingly easy to give into. After all, he had been quite prepared to just contend with hard wood floors and a silent dwarf for his pains tonight. If he has read Thorin right, the dwarf is probably not the chattiest of companions even on his best of days.

And so lost in the hours and halfway into a light doze is he, that when Thorin suddenly clears his throat, deep and rasping, an undignified squeak is startled out of him and only his quick reflexes save him from cracking his skull into the wooden slat above.

“You’re not asleep,” he points out, eventually and somewhat inanely.

“No,” the dwarf agrees. “I am not.”

Bilbo hefts himself awkwardly onto his side, facing Thorin once more, and squirms an arm under to pillow his head. The same blue eyes have come up now and are studying him from over the cloth of their wall, blinking tiredly. 

“Do you,” Thorin starts first, looking almost surprised at the words leaving his lips, “do you remember?” 

_Remember?_  Bilbo nods, then shrugs. “You mean, the Rising? I do. Bits of it, somewhat jumbled now, but I still remember t-the important things. Those who died, but also those who survived. And - and those that came back.”

He takes a breath, a discomfort rising in his chest that he adamantly forces down. “I used to dream about my parents. The night they were…. killed by the -  not that I saw it happen, I mean, they hid me away in my closet. But I think that makes it worse, somehow, not knowing. The mind can come up with the most- creative things.” 

Thorin watches him this whole time, still frozen in the same position curled on his side, knees up to his chest but his head and eyes are front and lifted, and he is listening _._  

Bilbo regards this dwarf, hours-old acquainted and yet something between them has already drastically changed, and a strange heat burns up now from behind his chest where there once had been trepidation.

“Do  _you_  remember? What happened to you?” He throws back and feels the barest twinge of guilt when Thorin flinches from the question. 

“You know I do.” Thorin growls, and it would have been rude if not for the little quaver that stutters at the end.

“This morning, then - ”

“This morning, when you saw my scars and my brand, and you heard me beg. Do you think _I could forget_?” Thorin interrupts, and the sudden hatred in those few last words is stunning in its ferocity.

“You didn’t know where you were,” Bilbo points out. “You were confused. Scared.”

The laugh that huffs out of Thorin is low and mirthless and splintering.

“Scared,” he says, sibilance dragging harshly through his teeth and raking a shudder through his form. “Anyone would be. Anyone should be.”

_Who of?_  Bilbo frantically wonders, dangerous curiosity flaring in the back of his mind, the anger emanating off Thorin setting his own hackles up.  _Who could invoke such terror, could be worth all that hatred?_

A someone, or some thing, that could take a living being apart and put them together again, and place their mark on them and own them; leave them on the brink of death, bring them back almost whole, keep them teetering between worlds. 

Back from the dead. As if he were a Necroma-

“Smaug.” Thorin offers without prompting. An answer to an unspoken question, a name hissed out barely above a whisper, only it sounds more like a curse than a name, but Bilbo catches it all the same when it jolts him out of his thoughts 

“Smaug? Who’s Smaug?” He asks, but Thorin shakes his head and clams up again, retreating back to his shell and - 

“No, Thorin, don’t- don't. I’m here to help you. I want to help.” He cannot,  _cannot_ help but say, here in this murked darkness that shrouds and hides them, because he is too deep in, too uncomfortably invested in the life of his dwarf ( _his dwarf?_ ) to turn back now.

It earns him a small disbelieving snort, but Thorin actually - subtly, minutely, unconsciously - moves closer when he says: “You cannot.”

Bilbo reaches out, tearing away the blanket wall, leaving only empty air and shadow between them.

“Try me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to be revealed in the next chapter! Thanks again for reading, everyone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory begins!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's still reading this so far :D

* * *

 

 

For all his aches and stiffness and complaining joints, courtesy of a sleepless night on the hard wood floor of his guest bedroom, Bilbo had still been able to complete his rounds on schedule and return to Bag End by luncheon with the white sun on his back and his satchel weighed heavier by Rosie Cotton's gift of freshly baked scones.

Juggling his travel pack with one hand and painstakingly unlatching all his locks with the other, he tries to make as much noise as possible, in a manner of pre-empting his guest of his arrival home. Last thing he wants, he thinks with a grim smile, is to be attacked by a skittish, brutishly strong, Un-undead who'd spent a similarly restless night under that same bed, with whom he'd shared only a prickly silence until the creeping dawn of morning.

"I'd be asleep if I were him," Bilbo grouses to himself, the crick in his neck making itself known obnoxiously.

But Thorin is awake when he comes through the door, sitting in the chair by the fireplace and watching the entrance with a furrowed intensity, looking ready to fight anything that came through it that might be deemed a threat.

"You were out," he says, in gruff greeting. His hands loosen from their tense grip on the armrests. It would've been a more frightening sight if it hadn't been for the fraying chequered quilt wrapped around him.

"I said so this morning," Bilbo mentions, shucking off his coat and hangs it up, scarf and hat following shortly, and he blows on his fingers that have numbed in the chill of late Fall. "I did. 'Thorin, I've got to get going. Feel free to come out whenever; you can help yourself to the buns in the kitchen if you're hungry.' That's what I said."

"You didn't say out." Thorin states, looking slightly betrayed. 

One hardly finds oneself, generally, arguing semantics with a partially dead Dwarf, but he acquiesces Thorin's point with a small smile when he sees Thorin's gaze drop. The dwarf looks almost... embarrassed.

"I should've been clearer," he soothes. "I'm sorry."

Thorin's frown returns, as his gaze gradually wanders from the worn spot on the carpet back up to Bilbo's face. "You were out - helping your people?"

"It's what I do," he replies. "It's my duty now to look after them. Has been, since my gran passed on."

Thorin keeps his eyes trained on him. "Is that... is that why Gandalf sent me to you?"

It is a good question, one that Bilbo is still asking himself. He ponders the thought as he retrieves a lot of Foil and hands it to Thorin, who swallows it down gratefully.

"Perhaps." Bilbo accedes, after the short silence. The dwarf nods, taking his answer for all that it is.

"You said-" Thorin clears his throat. "You said you wanted to help?"

"I did. I still do."

He settles into the opposite chair after he puts the scones out on to a plate and its pot of butter between them. Fleetingly, he thinks how they're now seated, mirroring exactly the first night when Thorin had stepped into his home and into his life.

Only now, Thorin looks almost nothing like he had that night, the changes wrought on him like a breath of life into dry bones. Skin considerably pinker with blood now running under them, voice and words no longer a hard-won struggle, and the ice leached from the blue and white of his eyes, leaving only life and warmth.

Thorin cocks his head, and Bilbo flushes when he realizes he's been staring at the dwarf. Flushes even harder when he understands that Thorin is, just like he is with the other, studying him. 

"You have heard of Erebor?" Thorin begins. 

 

* * *

 

If he hadn't thought Thorin a most complicated being already, his story certainly cements that fact, and it sparks something long dormant and buried in Bilbo's Tookish side. 

"I'm sorry, did you say  _Prince_?" Bilbo stops him excitedly within the first lines of his account , but Thorin's raised eyebrow is sufficient to curb his enthusiasm, and he collects himself with a dainty cough.

 _"_ Prince Thorin?"

"Son of Thrain, son of Thror," Thorin repeats, slowly, "King under the Mountain."

The Lonely Mountain; he knows of it, everyone does. Far to the east, where the shadows lie - as the tales tell. Where fire had come from the sky, and where the Risings first came to be. Out of the darkness seeping forth from the twin peaks of Erebor and Dol Guldur, infecting the Greenwood and its inhabitants before felling the cities beyond the forest borders.

The dwarves of Erebor had been the first casualties, and yet the first to rise to the hunt. Few escaped the Mountain, Thorin guesses, the furrow back and drawing a deep frown line in his forehead. Even fewer would have survived alive.

"How much do you remember?" Bilbo asks 

"How much do I _want_ to remember?" Thorin shakes his head, but carries on nonetheless.

He remembers, he tells Bilbo, falling from a height. Waking up to darkness. Heat boiling from the rock around them. Flash of red through the blackness. Glints of gold. Sounds - screams. Dwarves dying around him. Father, grandfather -

"Frerin."

Thorin breaks off, digging fingers hard into his temple. Bilbo clutches the plate of scones now in his lap; if nothing else, to restrain himself from reaching out to touch Thorin, for in all likelihood, that would only bring about a violent panic - and he isn't about to repeat that mistake. 

When Thorin finally moves again, it is with a barely concealed tremor as his hand swipes down roughly across his face.

"I'm glad," he says, frown twisting itself into a wry smile, "I'm glad he never did to them what was done to me."

 _Smaug_. Bilbo pointedly refrains from staring at the the scar on his chest. Keeps his gaze trained on the Dwarf in the chair; a live, but dead - or rather, would be, but for the Kingsfoil that keeps him alive.

It is, quite possibly, a most horrid existence.

"How long?" Bilbo eventually dares to ask.

Thorin shrugs, a minute lift of shoulders under the blanket tucked behind him.

"Years."

Upon years, upon years; decades in captivity, as some monster's plaything - Bilbo suppresses a shudder at that.

"You survived." He tells him, and himself.

"I survived," Thorin agrees with the barest flinch. "I survived - many things. I believe that was the whole point, Master hobbit. _Special_ , he called me. _Nard. Gul._ "

It's Bilbo's turn to frown now, as he plies his memories of Grandmother's books, read by waning candlelight in his many sleepless nights. Black Speech he can identify - _Nard_ he translates in variance of  _naghu:_ soldier.  _Gul:_  Ghoul.

He stares at Thorin, who bares teeth in his smile at his realisation. 

_They were trying to build an Army._

"And others?"

For the briefest of moments, Bilbo believes he catches the pinpoint of pupils in paling blue eyes before Thorin's gaze shutters.

"I do not know," he confesses.

"So, there may be dwarves, still, in that Mountain, " Bilbo says. "Dwarves, like you."

Thorin nods, once.

"Then we need to -"  _find them / save them / destroy them_. 

He stops himself. Thorin looks up at him; beyond him, possibly.

"I know."


End file.
